


Put on the Red Light

by EveryDarkCorner



Series: SladeRobin Week 2018 [2]
Category: DCU
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Jealous Slade, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover As Prostitute, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16418705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: While working undercover in a strip club, Dick learns that Slade doesn't share his toys.





	Put on the Red Light

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of SladeRobin Week 2018! For this one, I used the prompt 'Possessive'. :)

Dick held up the tiny black pleather shorts.  Why did he always get the shitty jobs?

               He hauled his sweater up over his head, taking his t-shirt with it and ignoring the sideways glances from the girls switching out their jeans and hoodies for nipple tassels.  Jason would never do this.  Jason would laugh himself sick if Dick even suggested it.  Tim and Damien were too young.  And Barb would slap him, and also every patron in the bar who dared look her way.

He wiggled out of his jeans, rolled his socks into balls and tucked them neatly into his shoes to delay the inevitable, then finally dropped his boxers and struggled into the pleather shorts.

               _Would you look at that?_ he thought, with all the delight of a man looking down the barrel of a gun.  _They’ve got ass cut-outs._

               The rest of his costume involved black boots, bracelets with artfully draping chains to mimic handcuffs, and a leather collar—clipped at the back with poppers rather than a hook, presumably so Gotham’s shadier patrons couldn’t pull him in a back room and strangle him with it.

               Just what _was_ the Purple Umbrella’s policy was drinking on the job?

               Hopefully, lax.

               When the manager marched in, clapping his hands and loudly announcing, ‘Showtime, my bunnies!’ Dick tried not to catch his eye.  But that didn’t stop the guy slapping his ass as Dick walked past on his way out the dressing room into the bar proper.

               Lights flashed like fireworks, and customers already clustered around the little booth tables.  Music pulsed through speakers around the room, and on stage the girl that’d been staring at Dick was already halfway up a pole, hanging upside down.

               The man at the bar waved Dick over, and handed him a cocktail in three colours, plus sprinkles and tiny paper umbrella.  Purple, of course.  ‘Table seven.’

               Wheeling around, Dick spotted the number plaque, and then the patron sitting at the table.  He scowled, and marched over.

               ‘Hey, Bruce.’

               ‘Dick.  Good, I—’  Bruce looked up as Dick set the cocktail in front of him, and jolted as if Dick had instead tossed the drink down his Armani shirt.  ‘Jesus, what are you wearing?’

               Dick sat beside him, crossing an ankle over his knee and leering.  Because if there was one person who’d enjoy this even less than him, it was Bruce.  ‘My uniform.’

               The whites were visible all the way around Bruce’s eyes.  ‘I thought you were getting in as a waiter.’

               ‘This is what the waiters wear here.’  Dick gave a strained smile and leaned closer; Bruce edged away.  ‘You owe me for this, big time.  Like, bare minimum, I’m talking new batons—those carbon-fibre ones with the ergonomic handgrips.’

               ‘I will buy you anything you want if you put on pants.’

               Dick’s grin was a little less forced as he leaned back.  He’d wanted those batons for six months.  ‘No pants.  Next time, get two invites for your damn stakeout.’  He straightened.  ‘Who am I spying on?’

               Bruce nodded to a table in the corner, populated with men in dark suits, who were suspiciously uninterested in the girl now doing an impressive upside-down box split onstage.  ‘We need to find out when their shipment gets in.  I’ll talk to them in a minute.  Hang back and watch my six.’

               Giving a mocking salute which jangled the chain on his wrist, Dick hopped back up and headed back to the bar.

               ‘He biting?’ the barman asked, sliding over two shots of whiskey on the rocks.

               ‘Nah,’ said Dick, every inch of his skin crawling at the thought of Bruce taking him upstairs for a quickie.  ‘He’s not interested.’

               ‘Shame.  Try the guys at table two.’

               _Good old Gotham._   Dick plucked up the whiskeys and headed for the table.  _Where the job description for waitering includes ‘swallows and doesn’t bitch about butt stuff’._

               He shuttled drinks around the room for twenty minutes, forcing smiles, ignoring multiple ass-grabs, and dodging one crotch-grab from an octogenarian whose face would haunt his nightmares.

               Bruce finished his first cocktail and waved for another, which Dick brought, glowering openly.  He leaned over the back of the wide, cushioned sofa to set the drink down, and hissed,

               ‘Feel like getting started anytime soon?  Or are you enjoying my suffer—’

               A man walked in.

               Dick stopped.

               A man in a high-collared coat, a copper scarf, and a black eyepatch.

               ‘ _Shit._ ’  Dick ducked his head, bringing a hand up to hide his face and trying to make it look natural by leaning over the back of Bruce’s chair.  Peeking through his fingers, he watched Slade shrug off his coat and hand it to a waitress.

               Bruce pretended to sip his cocktail.  ‘Who is it?’

               ‘A complication,’ Dick ground out.

               ‘Can you handle it?’

               Closing his eyes, Dick sighed.  ‘Sure.  Fine.  Just … get this over with.’

               Bruce stood, drink in hand, and headed over to the men in dark suits.  Straightening up, Dick headed back to the bar to pick up the next order.  He tried to sneak a glance at Slade—and found him crossing the room, single eye fixed on Dick.

               Dick’s blood went cold, and he hesitated, one hand on the bar, as Slade stalked closer.  If it came to a fight, Bruce’s mission could be completely compromised.  If it came to something else …

               Well, Dick didn’t need Bruce knowing _everything_ he got up to in Blüdhaven.

               Meanwhile, Bruce reached the targets’ table, tripped, and artfully poured his cocktail down one man’s ill-fitting jacket.

               Slade’s head snapped up at the man’s squawk of indignation.  Then, giving Dick one more glance, sharp as broken glass, he headed over to the table.  Dick sagged against the bar, letting a breath out through his nose.  So Slade wasn’t here purely to confront him.

               ‘Ex-boyfriend?’  The barman slid a couple of napkins Dick’s way.

               Dick grimaced.  ‘Something like that.’

               By the time Dick hurried over with napkins, Bruce was laying on the charm, apologising profusely and offering free rounds to everyone at the table.  The men at the table looked undecided.  And Slade …

               Slade look outright suspicious.

               He glared at Bruce with undisguised loathing—an expression that only strengthened as Dick arrived.

               ‘Seriously, fellas, my bad,’ Bruce said, wisely ignoring Slade and playing instead to the other men at the table.  ‘What can I get you?’

               ‘You can get another table.’  Slade’s voice was low and dangerous.

               Bruce glanced at Dick.  Dick lifted his chin and made a swift gesture just below his hip.  Bruce spotted it.  He swallowed, and for a moment Dick thought Bruce might ignore him …

               ‘OK, fellas.’  Bruce raised his hands.  ‘I’m not looking for trouble.  You just tell the barman the next round’s on me.’  He nodded at Dick, who gave him a thin smile.  Then, hesitantly, Bruce stepped away.

               Dick slipped into his place.  ‘Sorry about that.  Anything I can do for you?’

               The men in suits shook their heads and waved their hands, and Dick was ready to step back, regroup, and come back with a new plan—

               When Slade slid smoothly into the booth, and said, ‘Yes.  You can stay with us.’

               Dick tried not to wince too obviously.  _Of course.  Complication._

               But on the other hand … Slade just got him an invite to the exact table he needed to spy on.

               ‘Sure.’  Dick took a seat next to Slade.

               Leaning over, Slade grabbed Dick by the hips, and hauled him up onto his lap.  Dick made a graceless sound halfway between a gasp and a yelp, arms flailing before he caught the edge of the table.  Slade’s fingers dug into his bare hips, just over the line of Dick’s stupid tiny shorts, and he dragged Dick closer, until Dick felt Slade’s stomach against his lower back, and a distinct lump just underneath him.

               Blood rushed Dick’s his face, and every muscle in his body tensed as he fought the urge to leap up, launch himself over the table and make a bid for freedom.

               At the raised eyebrows around the table, Slade shrugged.  ‘You chose this place, Kane.  I mean to enjoy it.’

               The man he’d called Kane folded his arms, jaw working as he ground his teeth.  ‘Whatever, Wilson.  Just take this seriously.’

               Slade’s hands slid from Dick’s hips down his legs.  Dick closed his hands into fists as goose bumps erupted over his skin, flushes of heat pouring through his body.

               ‘I take everything seriously,’ Slade murmured, so close to Dick’s ear his breath made Dick’s toes curl.

               Kane sneered.  ‘Business, then.’

               Slade sat back, but kept his hands on Dick’s legs, fingertips pressing into the muscle at the tops of his thighs.  ‘Business.’

               ‘We got a shipment coming in tomorrow.  Needs some security.’

               Without thinking, Dick straightened.  Then, when Kane’s gaze snapped up to him, he looked down, rolling his shoulders and pretending to fidget.  Slade’s grip tightened on Dick’s leg, tight enough to make him wince.

               ‘So?’ Slade said, sounding bored.

               ‘So?’ Kane repeated.  ‘So it’s a job.  We’ll pay you good.  You want in or not?’

               Slade pressed his mouth against Dick’s neck, right up against the hairline.  Dick barely heard him whisper, ‘Play the whore, or I throw you out.’  Then to Kane he said, ‘Details?’ and Dick couldn’t be certain Slade had whispered at all.

               But he swallowed, and slowly leaned back into Slade’s chest.

               Heat instantly flushed through him, his face burning so hot he was sure he looked more blushing virgin than experienced whore.  But Slade spread his fingers and ran his hands slowly up and down Dick’s legs, encouraging.  Breath suddenly coming heavy, Dick leaned his head back against Slade’s shoulder.

               It felt instantly uncomfortable.  Not just because of the stretch in his neck and back, but because he was baring his throat to the sort of people he’d usually keep away with two batons and a swift kick upside the head.

               ‘You don’t need to know what the cargo is,’ Kane said.  ‘You just need to keep away unwanted guests.’

               ‘Police?’ Slade said.

               His hands inched higher up Dick’s legs now, and Dick had to squeeze his eyes closed as warmth flooded lower into his belly.  _Just get the information, and get out._

               ‘Gotham’s finest look the other way for a hefty enough pay check,’ Kane said.

               Dick made note of that, to pass on to Gordon.  If there was still corruption in the force, he’d hunt it down.  Then Slade pressed his fingers into the corner where Dick’s legs met his pelvis, and Dick’s focus snapped to holding back the whine in his throat.

               ‘So you’re thinking vigilantes,’ Slade said.

               Kane grunted an affirmative.

               ‘I charge extra for dealing with the Bat.’

               A snort.  ‘I bet you do.’

               Somewhere beyond the roar of blood in his ears, Dick heard a distinct cough.  He lifted his head, trying to look lazy, and searched for the source.

               Bruce had moved to two tables away.  He wasn’t looking at Dick, in a very obvious sort of way.

               A whole new, and entirely different, flush of heat went through Dick, and it was all he could do not to slide out of Slade’s lap and dive under the table.  He closed his eyes.  _I hate my life._

               ‘And you accept my methods?’ Slade said.

               ‘Do what you gotta do.’  Kane snorted.  ‘Hell, if you actually manage to kill the Bat, I’ll double your pay again.’

               Another cough from Bruce.  This one sounded like a plea.

               Swallowing, Dick cleared his throat.  Then, as Bruce looked up, he raised one arm, hooked his elbow over the back of the chair, and made a short, casual hand gesture.

_Go.  I’ve got this._

               From the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce’s knitted brow—but also the way his shoulders sloped as he let out a relieved sigh.  A moment later, Bruce stood and walked out of Dick’s line of sight.  Dick set his head back on Slade’s shoulder, this time turning his face into the crook of Slade’s neck to hide the grimace he just couldn’t quite wipe off his face.

               He’d corner Bruce later, and demand his damn batons.  And then, for good measure, remind Bruce that Damien still didn’t know about the time Bruce completely fell for Poison Ivy’s schtick, and wound up paralysed, and had to be rescued by then-ten-year-old Dick, who laughed at him in the Batmobile for a full hour while he recovered.  Just in case Bruce ever thought of mentioning this to a single living soul.

               Kane and Slade moved on to discussing numbers.  Closing his eyes, Dick drew a deep breath and tried to pay attention in spite of the fact that Slade was leaning forward, prising Dick’s legs further apart, then stroking up and down …

               Damn it, Slade smelled good.

               ‘Agreed.’  Slade finally reached out to shake Kane’s hand.  Kane hesitated before taking it, glancing briefly and with faint disgust at Dick’s bare leg.  ‘When and where?’

               ‘East side docks, Warehouse 17.  Seven P.M. sharp.’

               Dick’s jaw tightened.  That was it.

               ‘Perfect.’  Slade set his hand on Dick’s leg again, dangerously close to the edge of Dick’s tiny shorts.  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.’

               He landed a sharp slap on Dick’s leg, and Dick jolted.  Slade pushed his hips and he stumbled to his feet.

 _Thank god._   Why Slade helped him, he couldn’t fathom.  They might have … fumbled, in the past, but Slade as a rule didn’t let that interfere with any opportunity to make money.  But at least it was done and Dick could get out.  Which he did, fast, shooting out of the booth and heading at a swift march for the exit—

               Only for Slade to grab his elbow halfway across the room.

               Dick hesitated, and Slade leaned down and growled,

               ‘Upstairs.’

               Dick scowled, but Kane and his men were still watching, and if Dick gave them reason to be suspicious, they might change the shipment.  So he gritted his teeth, and let Slade lead him across the room.  As they passed the bar, the barman gave Dick a cheery thumbs-up.  Dick resisted the urge to respond with the finger.

               The stairway was dark, tight, and dusty, and the upstairs was lit with tacky red bulbs.  Behind one closed door, Dick heard gasping and slapping, which he chose to immediately erase from his memory.

               Slade led him a few rooms down, tossed Dick inside, then slammed the door shut behind them.

               Dick stumbled for only a few paces.  Then he straightened and turned, fists clenched, fighting-ready.  The room was dingy; moth-eaten curtains half-drawn over a smeared window, a too-large bed shoved up in the corner with rumpled sheets.  Slade stalked closer, and Dick swung a punch, which Slade dodged easily, then another, which Slade blocked with bored effortlessness.

               But he didn’t look bored.

               Brow low, lips drawn back, nose wrinkled in disgust.  Slade looked ready to scrape Dick off the bottom of his shoe.

               The expression made Dick falter, because sure, Slade had been _pissed_ at him before, but he’d never been _murderous_ pissed at him, and that falter meant Slade managed to land his fist around Dick’s throat.  With a sharp jerk, he lifted Dick clean off the floor.  Dick choked, kicking, fingers instinctively clawing at Slade’s fist.

               ‘I wasn’t aware,’ Slade growled, ‘you were available to all of Gotham at an hourly rate.’

               Hauling with all his strength, Dick lifted his legs, and landed a kick in Slade’s naval.  Slade grunted and dropped him, doubling over.

               ‘Fuck … you …’ Dick wheezed.  ‘Under … cover …’

               ‘Looking for information from Kane.’  Slade rolled his single eye.  ‘I guessed.  You’re welcome, by the way.’

               ‘You just strangled me,’ Dick spat.  ‘Screw you, you don’t get a thank you.’

               Slade continued as if he hadn’t heard him.  ‘But I’m curious what Bruce Wayne had to do with your little undercover mission.’

               Dick stared, and Slade stared back, hard and furious.

               ‘Bruce …’

               Raising an eyebrow, Slade stepped closer.  ‘The famous multi-billionaire you were fawning over when I came in.’

               Dick spluttered.  ‘ _Fawning_ over?’

               But—of course.  Of course, Slade might have information on Dick—might even, for all Dick knew, be aware of his real identity.  But _nobody_ knew Batman’s identity.  And Bruce Wayne was a bumbling, smiling, goofy drunk with a surprising generous streak.  People were laughed out of conspiracy message boards for suggesting Bruce was the Flash, much less _Batman_.

               Slade’s hands were fists at his sides.  ‘Draped over the back of his seat, whispering in his ear.  How much _does_ Wayne pay you, or is it the same rate for everyone?’

               Dick’s shock finally took a back seat to outrage.  ‘Are you insane?’  Rather than side-step as Slade drew closer, he straightened and marched in towards him, causing Slade to halt, just for a moment.  ‘There is no goddamn _rate_!  Not for Bruce, not for anyone!  I—am— _undercover._ ’  He ground the last words out through gritted teeth.

               A moment’s hesitation.  Then, some of the tension melted out of Slade’s shoulders.  ‘Good.’  His voice lowered.  ‘I don’t like to share, Nightwing.’

               Dick narrowed his eyes, but didn’t back off as Slade closed in.  ‘I don’t belong to you.’

               Reaching up, Slade curled a hand into the back of Dick’s hair.  ‘Yes, you do.’

               A sharp breath—and then Slade swept down and kissed him.  Dick jerked back, but Slade’s hand tightened in his hair and he nipped at Dick’s lip, just hard enough to sting.  As Dick’s breath hitched, he felt Slade smirk against his mouth.

               ‘Mine,’ Slade murmured.  His tongue slipped into Dick’s mouth and Dick moaned despite himself, warmth rushing again through him.  Slade scraped his teeth over Dick’s lip, then kissed the corner of Dick’s mouth, then the edge of his jaw, and down, down his neck.  Another, another.  He pulled Dick’s hair and Dick tilted his head.  ‘You are all mine.’

               Dick groaned.  He ought to shove Slade off.  To get back to Bruce.  Finish the mission and get out …

               He pressed closer to Slade, and whined as Slade ground his hips in, as the ache in his cock went from tight and wanting to delicious.  Slade ran his tongue up Dick’s throat, flickering over his pulse, and Dick damn near melted.

               The room was a haze as Slade drew him across the carpet and pressed him into the bed, hands circling Dick’s wrists over the cheap bracelets.  Dick arched up, driving for the friction of Slade’s body against his own, and hummed in satisfaction when Slade pressed down.

               And then Slade opened his mouth, and sank his teeth into Dick’s throat.

               Dick flinched, and then yelped as Slade’s teeth drove deeper, digging hard and sharp into his flesh.

               ‘Slade, stop!  _Stop!_ ’

               Dick tried to lift his arms but Slade had him pinned, his weight heavy and solid over Dick’s body.  His bite burrowed deeper and deeper still, aching and bruising and stinging, sharp as the cut of a knife.  And when he finally raised his head, blood glistened on his lips. 

               ‘You’re mine,’ he growled, sweeping in to press his mouth hard against Dick’s.

               Dick made a small, high sound, trying to wrench free as he tasted the thick, metallic wetness of his own blood.  But Slade lapped in with his tongue and nipped at Dick’s lips, each touch of teeth making Dick flinch and twitch.

               As Slade finally drew away, Dick tried to yank free—only for Slade to flip him on his belly, drawing both of Dick’s arms behind into the iron-hard grip of one hand.  Pain flared through Dick’s throat as the bite pressed into the stained pillows.

               ‘Get off me!  Slade, I said get _off_!’

               Slade drew his nails down Dick’s spine, deep enough to carve tracks in his skin.  Dick hissed and arched his back.  And then he snarled as Slade curled a hand around those fucking shorts.

               ‘If you’re going to dress like a whore,’ Slade murmured, ‘you’ll be treated like a whore.’

               Dick hated the heat that flushed through him, even he snarled in outrage.  He kicked as Slade yanked the shorts down, but missed, and next thing a hand pressed into the back of his head, forcing his face down into the pillows.  He gasped and jerked, breath stifled against the cloth, each exhale pooling stuffy warmth around his face.

               The hand withdrew after too long.  Dick lifted his head to gasp, and an instant later felt something cold and wet between his legs.  He stiffened.  ‘Don’t you dare.  Don’t you fucking dare.’

               ‘I own you,’ Slade growled.  ‘I’ll do what I want.’

               The first finger went in easy.  At the second, Dick writhed and bucked, arms aching behind him as Slade tightened his grip and lifted his wrists higher.  Dick heaved, and trembled, and he wasn’t sure if it was the third finger now moving in him or the slow, burning pain in his shoulders that had him gritting his teeth and hissing on each breath.

               ‘Relax, Nightwing.’  Slade’s fingers curled, thrusting up until Dick felt the palm of his hand pressing against his ass.  Then he scraped down, and Dick yelled out as flashes like electric shock shot up his spine.  ‘I know how to make you like it.’

               ‘Fuck you,’ Dick groaned.  Another thrust and scrape from Slade’s fingers and he slumped, legs weak.  Another, and his cock strained, trapped between his belly and the mattress.  He held his breath, trembling.

               Slade withdrew his hand.  Dick felt a bump against his leg, and then pressure, and then the sharp sting of Slade inside him.

               ‘Shh, shh, shh.’  With his free hand, Slade petted at Dick’s hair.  Scratched the back of Dick’s neck.  Then he moved his hips, and thrusted.  Slow, slow and sweet.

               Dick couldn’t help the whine as Slade moved, and gradually, inch by aching inch, the sting faded into the background of heat.  Heat, and fullness, and the strain of his cock underneath him.  The bed stank of old sweat, and he was too hot with Slade draped over him, and his shoulders burned—

               And he shifted his knees in and raised his hips and arched his back.

               And moaned as Slade fucked him.

               Another stroke and another and another, all blurring into one slow build, like a thousand steps to climb a mountain.  Dick gasped and moaned and hummed, and over him he heard Slade’s sharp breaths, and felt his grip tighten and loosen on Dick’s wrists.

               Dick came first.  It felt like being ripped up at the seams.  Like reaching the top of the mountain, and jumping off.  And he was too hot and too exhausted to care that it hurt as Slade kept thrusting into him, harder now, faster, each snap of the hips like a whip cracking.

               When Slade came, he hissed through his teeth, and didn’t make another sound.

               A moment later he stood, and Dick rolled over and sat up and glared.

               ‘Bastard.’

               Slade ignored him, zipping up his flies.  ‘If you try to stop the shipment tomorrow, I’ll have to stop you.’

               Dick snorted.  ‘You can try.’

               With a shrug, Slade stood.  ‘Or you could stop the shipment the day after, when it’s stocked in Warehouse 47 in the Park District until nine in the evening.  When I won’t be there.  Your choice.’  He ran a hand through his hair, then leaned down and traced over the bite on Dick’s neck; Dick flinched.  ‘Don’t forget who you belong to, Nightwing.’

               Then he straightened and walked away.  Out of spite, Dick didn’t mention the blood still smeared in Slade’s white beard.


End file.
